48 A Sportswoman in India 



The hounds are out at the far end of the jheel, and 

 streaming across the first few grass fields, the keen 

 air positively ringing for miles as they drive at their 

 jack through a thick bit of reeds on the edge of the 

 grass land. 



What is scent ? is asked scores and scores of times. 

 Does the subtle essence float in the air breast-high, 

 or does the jack leave it behind him on the ground 

 he crosses, wherever a pad has touched? Or is it 

 neither, or both ? Those who hunt most know best 

 that the mysteries of scent are not to be fathomed. 



But there is a scent this morning, and that is all 

 we care for. The Master, taking his horse by the 

 head, is crashing through the patch of dry reeds, over 

 the stubs, and scrambling through the straggling fence 

 which separates it from open country ; we follow as 

 best we can, our ponies blundering about, envying the 

 ease with which the M.F.H. on his clever waler got 

 over such ground. 



Half the field now diverge to the right, the rest 

 of us going left-handed, with the Master's pink back 

 ahead. We were galloping over a spreading country, 

 some fields lying fallow, waiting to be sown, others 

 with their new crops ; the different fields were separated 

 by little ditches with a bank on either side, trappy 

 little places, and it was wonderful how cleverly most 

 of the tats flew them. 



But all is not so easy and smooth as at first sight 

 it seems : the pack disappears for a moment beyond 

 a slight rise in the ground, with a corresponding fall, 



